


The Heathcliff Variant

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky rushes into marriage when it's Hutch he really wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heathcliff Variant

The Heathcliff Variant  
by Dawnwind

If hindsight was 20/20 then Starsky figured his vision must be near perfect after all this time. Like an eagle flying high over the terrain, he could look behind, see all the roads he should have taken and the paths he'd stumbled down wearing blinders.

It all seemed so ridiculously clear, here now, thousands of miles from home, that nothing would ever be the way it had been before. The worst, and most galling thing of all, was that nothing would ever be what it could have been if only Starsky had seen what was right in front of him every single day.

The pain in his chest was a physical thing full of spikes, and it had nothing to do with the jagged scars that criss-crossed his torso. This was a pain that narcotics didn't even touch. He'd thought about trying booze--just drink away the guilt, quietly float away in a drunken haze. Had he been in California, that would have been the easiest stopgap solution. There was a bottle of unopened Scotch under his sink. Had been there for over a year--closer to two; bought for some passing girlfriend who liked the stuff, and never poured when she'd left him after a pointless argument over his crazy hours.

But he wasn't in California.

Hell, he wasn't even in the US.

Stuck half way around the world, out in the middle of a moor waiting for Heathcliff to show up.

Starsky pushed himself away from the cold windowpane, his cheek icy from the prolonged contact. Not Heathcliff--that was wrong. Who was it who'd called across the windswept moors, wandering aimlessly in the fog?

Strange, he felt drunk even without a drop of alcohol. Lightheaded and sick.

He tried to stand but his legs wouldn't hold him and he sank back into the window seat, utterly exhausted. Outside, the world was all gray, rain falling ceaselessly since he'd arrived on Thursday.

So what was today? Concentrating past the fog in his brain, Starsky decided it had to be Friday. Only one day gone then. Not so many, really.

Friday--one week since the wedding. Two days since the funeral. He didn't know which was the hardest to bear.

Gemma. Sweet, unassuming, pretty Gemma. Gemma of the fairy hill.

 _Gemma of the spirits._

Creepy. He'd christened her that on one dark night in the hospital when she'd come in to take his vitals and found him shivering in the dark, freaked out by the ghost that haunted the room. Too much morphine had twisted his dream into nightmares of the walking dead, rising up from the basement morgue.

Gemma held his hand for an hour, lulling him back to sleep.

Starsky could still feel her small, dry hands in his, the skin roughened from the frequent hand washing of a nurse, and look up to see her chocolate brown eyes looking back at him.

"David," she would cluck in that way of hers, half-mother hen and half-amused that he'd once again managed to fight the sedative effects of the narcotics and stay awake until she arrived to take his vitals at 11:45 exactly. "You should be asleep by now."

"Not until I see my Gemma of the spirits." Starsky grinned at her. "Hutch goes home jus' before 11 and you come jus' after." He was slurring his words a little, but Starsky was proud of his ability to talk when doped to the eyeballs. Very useful of late.

"Well." Gemma slipped the thermometer into his mouth so that he couldn't speak and tapped her fingers on his wrist to find the pulse. "You've seen me, now it's off to Neverland for you."

"You fergit M'a grun-up . . . " Starsky mumbled around the glass tube under his tongue.

"Can't understand you," Gemma said gaily, her British accent like music to his ears. "You sound like you have a mouthful of marbles."

"And you sound like the Queen mum." Starsky popped the thermometer out and peered at the numbers. "You must get laser eyesight in nursing school. How do you read these things?"

"The silver line, dear," she reminded him, just as she'd done every night she was on duty. "Getting on in years, are you?"

Theirs was a playful game, part teasing, part foreplay. Starsky was well aware he shouldn't be romancing his nurse, of all people. In his condition, there wasn't much he could be do in the way of seduction, anyway, he was still barely able to do much more than totter a few steps from the bed to the nearby chair, and completely unable to raise the flag, as the saying went. Still, his near death experience had given him a new lease on life and he was going to live it to the fullest. First order of business, the wife and children he'd always longed for.

Gemma fit the bill perfectly. She was petite, with a short fluff of soft brown curls cut in a fringe, as she called it. He'd always remind her that in American, the hair on her forehead was bangs. She'd counter that bangs came from guns, and they'd be giggling helplessly in the wee hours of the night, banishing his nightmares to another realm.

On the rare nights when Hutch could stay late and watch movies from midnight until two am, Starsky didn't need Gemma as much, but he still invited her in, introducing her to his partner. Hutch had liked her, too, even mentioning that she reminded him of Terry.

 _Terry_

Sitting there, staring out at the rain-swept Yorkshire moors, Starsky felt a twist inside him. He could so picture Hutch sitting next to the bed, blue eyes alight with amusement at the banter going back and forth between Starsky and Gemma as she recorded his heart rate and respiration.

She was like Terry. He hadn't wanted to see it. Had even scoffed at Hutch's assessment. Gemma was British, didn't work with special kids, had lived in India as a child and ridden an elephant. As far removed from Nebraska-born Terri Roberts as she could possibly be.

He didn't have to transport himself back to Bay City to dig up a photo of Terry to compare it to one of his wedding pictures. Didn't even have to conjure up Terry's image in his brain and stand her next to his Gemma; they were alike as two peas. Not glamorous or showy. Little make-up, just natural, true beauty. The kind that had shown through clear eyes and delicate features, revealing a loving heart and gentle soul.

He'd glommed onto the first woman he laid eyes on who made him laugh and gave him any inkling of that yearning for a 'normal' life. Hadn't even given a thought to any other versions of normalcy, just ducked his head and pursued Gemma with desperate, single-minded purpose.

When he was first out of the hospital, they'd solidified their blossoming romance with innocent little dates. She'd come over when Hutch went to work, bringing him fairy cakes and scones from the tea shop near her apartment, whiling away the afternoon with stories of her childhood in the exotic city of Bangladesh and her teenage years boarding at a school in Yorkshire.

He embraced the true joy of being in love. Showered Gemma with romantic gifts and surprise outings. Breathed in her scent and dreamed about her when she wasn't there. Gemma was the one, the perfect person to bring home to his mother and bear his children. She was simply the most perfect woman he'd ever found. The word gamine described her to a T--small, playfully mischievous. It was almost as if she'd been created out of whole cloth to suit his every need.

Starsky couldn't wait until his body cooperated enough to prove that he'd fallen in love with her. By mid-October, he had bedded his Gemma of the fairy hill, and she'd clung to him--a reverse of all those nights in the hospital--wrapped her body around his and proclaimed her love with tears on her cheeks. She had to go back to the U.K. by the end of December, her work visa was up, and she didn't want to leave him.

The decision to get married was too easy, too perfect. It left nothing else to think about. Didn't allow Starsky to really see Hutch's astonished face go pale when he and Gemma broke the good news. Between Halloween and Thanksgiving, there was a whirlwind of activity getting ready for the wedding.

Or weddings, as it turned out. One in front of the judge in the Bay City courthouse, and a second one outside Salisbury, in the church the Hawthorne family had attended for over two hundred years.

Starsky never allowed himself one moment to think. He'd just barreled ahead with all the plans and organizing, fixated on his bride and the storybook life they would have. 1980 would be a whole new world, full of possibilities, because he had survived that horrific shooting long enough to catch the brass ring and find true happiness. That this was a house made of cards never sunk in. That there could be any other conclusions to the tale of Starsky, Gemma and Hutch was never considered.

That Starsky basically turned his back on the person who anchored his life never even crossed his mind until it was far, far too late.

He wasn't sure when he'd first the fleeting moments of panic, moments that turned into full blown anxiety attacks that could strike at any time. He'd hid them, of course, not only from Gemma, but Hutch as well. Nobody suspected that his frequent trips to the bathroom had more to do with taking deep breaths and trying to calm a rapid-fire heart rate. He'd survived four bullets in the chest to be brought down by wedding planning! Ridiculous. Determined to stick it out without his bride or his partner knowing, Starsky barreled forward, jumping the hurdles of weddings on two continents, the travel plans in the middle of December and the inability to eat anything without feeling like he was going to throw up without a visible stumble.

And it had all been worth it. Standing in front of thirty-five members of the Hawthorne family and their guests, plus Rachel Starsky and Ken Hutchinson, before the altar of St. Michael's church in Winterbourne Earls, Starsky had watched Gemma walk down the long aisle in her cream lace dress. She glowed, a brilliance lighting her from within that rivaled the flames of the candles lit on the altar. He needed that beauty to light the dark places inside him, the ones that never seemed to get warm, no matter what he did. He'd taken her hand, letting her warmth and happiness fill him up until he was as giddy as a teetotaler taking his first sip of champagne.

"Do you David Michael take Gemma Verity to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the vicar had intoned.

"I do," Starsky said, staring into her eyes--and strangely surprised all over again that they were brown instead of the translucent blue he always wanted them to be. She was stunning, almost other worldly, her childhood nickname--Gemma of the fairy hill--fitting more than ever. She didn't belong here on earth, she was an angel, some sort of spirit here simply to take him from death's door to health and happiness again.

"Do you Gemma Verity take David Michael to be your husband?"

When she didn't speak for a moment, Starsky held his breath, almost ashamed to witness the tears in her dark eyes, and glanced away from her emotions, allowing himself to find Hutch in the pews. He let himself have that one look at Hutch before turning back to Gemma's face as she said, "I do."

Starsky stuffed down the panicky flutters in his belly, plastering on a smile and running down the aisle with his jubilant bride, both of them laughing with relief that the hardest part was over. At the door of the gray stone church, Gemma had thrown her bouquet back at the single women with a swing that made her younger brother Edmund, a cricket bowler on the local team, proud.

Starsky's mother caught it with a disarming blush, jumping up in her sensible shoes like a woman half her age. Gemma's younger sisters and cousins never had a chance.

"Ma!" Starsky cried. "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Let me get back to you on that," Rachel laughed. "After I talk to Murray, the butcher."

The idea that his mother was dating was such a stunner that Starsky was in a daze for most of the reception. He ate when told to, smiled proudly at his pretty English rose when photographers were near and placed his hand on top of hers to hold the knife that cut their traditional English wedding cake. Gemma gave him a sugary kiss after taking the first bite of the cake. One of her sisters pulled her off for an all girl photo before Starsky had a chance to return the kiss.

"Unusual cake," Hutch said into his ear.

"Huh?" Starsky felt stupid. His head was clogged, as if had been since he'd landed in the U.K. three days before, and he hadn't slept through the night for as long as he could remember. Had nothing to do with jet lag--he simply didn't sleep much any more.

"At Karen's wedding, my mother insisted on a pure white cake with white icing." Hutch took another bite from his plate. "This has fruit in it--raisins, almond paste maybe, I like it."

"Yeah?" Starsky took the first deep, unrestricted breath he'd managed all day. Felt so good, he took a second one. "Lemme taste it."

"It's your wedding, Starsk," Hutch teased, but Starsky was sure he could hear sadness in his best friend's voice. "You should get a whole piece."

"Not really hungry," Starsky started to say when Hutch slipped the morsel studded with cherries and almonds into his mouth. It was good, very good and quite different than anything he'd tasted before.

"Feeding my groom?" Gemma laughed, grabbing Starsky's hand. "Come husband, we have to pose for more pictures before the last dance. Thanks, Hutch!" she cried gaily, towing Starsky away.

It wasn't until he and Gemma were getting into the rented Aston Martin to drive them back to her parent's house that he realized he hadn't said another word to Hutch for the rest of the evening. He'd glimpsed the blond head chatting up the pretty cousins at one point, and later waved at his friend when Hutch left for the hotel, but they'd never spoken. Looking back at the Victorian style building where the reception had been, Starsky had a pang of sadness that lodged deep inside his breast bone.

His throat was sore and scratchy that first night, and breathing hurt. Gemma clucked her tongue, settling her new husband in bed with a hot water bottle and a decongestant to drain his sinuses. She kissed him on the lips and Starsky pulled away, suddenly afraid.

"I'm probably contagious, Gemma!"

"Pish-tosh, it's nothing but a virus, love." She slid the long legs he'd always admired under the covers, tucking her cold feet under his warmer ones. "I'm not likely to waste away from a cold. You were in hospital only four months ago. I worry about you, and I like to baby you." Gemma pulled the quilt her grandmother had made around them both and snuggled in close. "Any thoughts on what to do next?"

She was warm and sensuous against his body, and when he kissed each of her eyebrows and then worked his way down her face, she purred like a cat. His cock jumped up to enter in the wedding night festivities without the slightest hesitation. Starsky told himself that he was happy. Very happy. Hutch would understand why he hadn't gotten back for that second bite of wedding cake. The groom had to work the room, dance with the maid of honor, his own mother and his mother-in-law. No time to express any regrets at the speed of the nuptials or that Starsky had a melancholy that he couldn't shake.

Lying awake in Gemma's childhood room, Starsky stared up at the dark ceiling. He was exhausted, but couldn't sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch. Where did any thought of regrets come from?

He was blissfully happy, in love with a perfect woman, newly married, and ready for the trip to a bed and breakfast on the moors, a wedding present from his wife's parents.

The next morning, Gemma's parents had made a grand 'veddy English brekker' with all the trimmings--sausage and bacon, which was more like ham in Starsky's opinion, fried eggs with a side of tomato, stacks of dry toast to be slathered with real cream butter and orange marmalade, and the strong tea the British were known for. Starsky laughed, ate, teased his blushing bride and wondered what Hutch was eating at his hotel.

He'd called his partner moments before they were planning to leave on their car journey from Winterbourne Earls to Whitby in Yorkshire. The weather had gotten blustery, wind whipping around trees and through branches, rain falling in sheets one moment and the next a bit of watery sun peaking through the gray lined clouds. It was in one of those brilliant moments when Gemma kissed her parents good-bye one last time, surveyed their little car packed with suitcases and a picnic lunch for the drive and said, "Let's be off, David!"

He'd loved that she called him David. It made Gemma somehow more special than all the other girls he'd ever known who called him Dave. Few of them called him Starsky, and none of the girls he'd dated had ever, ever been able to say his name the way Hutch did. Could be the male sound of his voice, next to Gemma's dulcet British tones, or because the way he said 'Starsk' personified Hutch, a true dichotomy of sarcasm, criticism, warmth, love and real friendship, all in one word.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky had said into the phone, waving at Gemma to give him one last minute. "We're leaving for the B and B now."

"I have to finish packing--the train to Heathrow leaves in less than an hour," Hutch said. "Have a great honeymoon, Starsk."

"We could drive you . . ." Starsky offered, without even a thought of asking Gemma first. "You and ma."

"No, I get the pleasure of sitting with your mother all the way to the terminal. Going to ask her about every naughty thing you did as a kid." Hutch laughed. ""See you in three weeks."

Walking out to the car, Starsky was still smiling about the fact that he and Hutch had eaten exactly the same meal--exactly. Mrs. Hawthorne had had two meals delivered from the hotel kitchen just before Gemma and Starsky woke up. Probably why his eggs had been cold.

"You look happy," Gemma commented, glancing over at him with that saucy look in her dark eyes. She was driving the first leg of the journey because Starsky still wasn't confident about driving on the left or those miserable traffic circles that every British neighborhood was plagued with. "Should I consider stopping at an inn closer to the M1 instead of going all the way to Yorkshire?"

"No." Starsky clasped her hand that was loosely holding the gearshift. "Just give me another of those driving lessons you promised so I get the hang of this backwards driving you do in this country and I'll take over in an hour."

If he had been driving, would it have happened? Or would his inexperience on the British roads have made everything even worse? He would never know.

The rain started up again when they stopped to stare out at the mysterious and otherworldly sight of Stonehenge. White monoliths rising out of the grassy plain, with incongruous sheep grazing only meters away. With the rain pouring down, the place was distinctly spooky, as if ghosts of long-departed druids guarded their place of worship. Starsky got an eerie chill down his spine, attributing it to too little sleep, continued jetlag and any meaning other than a premonition. He'd always told himself he didn't believe in all that--ESP was one thing, he could read Hutch's mind at a glance, no problem, but all that seeing into the future stuff was creepy. The psychic Callandra had more or less convinced him of his powers, although Starsky would never admit that to Hutch, but a shivery feeling down the spine--that was nothing.

No one could have predicted that a lorry driver would be drunk at 10:45 in the morning, or that very cold rainy weather would turn into an ice storm, laying patches of black ice on the roadway.

Gemma stopped for the first accident they saw, offering her services as a nurse just as the ambulance pulled up. The medics thanked her, and she started up the car, pulling out into the increasingly heavy traffic with a frown on her pixie-like features. "Maybe we should stop soon, David, with all this sodding rain."

He never got to answer her. The big rig slammed into the driver's side of the car with the force of charging rhino, shoving the small automobile off the road, down the soft shoulder into a muddy culvert. The two-door Ford landed upside down, with the front end of the lorry still locked onto the hood of the car.

Starsky came to in the casualty unit with a brown haired girl wearing a large, stiff white cap and a starched uniform bending over him. "Sir? Can you hear me? What's your name?"

"Gemma?" he asked groggily. She'd never worn an outfit like that at Memorial hospital. She was more often seen in a polyester jumpsuit with a much smaller cap perched tenuously on her curls.

"Try again?" the nurse prompted. "Your name, not the other passenger's."

"M'name's David," he groaned, and tried to sit up. Big mistake. The room dipped and swirled sickeningly and he barfed on the nurse's sturdy white shoes.

"Oops," she sympathized, jumping back to avoid the worst of the damage. "David, what's your last name?"

Finally, the severity of the situation was sinking in. He'd been through this routine too many times not to recognize the questions. He must have had some kind of head injury, except he had no memory of driving the Torino. "Starsky," he supplied, trying to think with the vast numbers of boulders rolling around in his head. He lay back on the gurney, keeping his head as still as possible. "Where's Hutch?"

His nurse was writing something down on a clipboard, and shook her head. "Sorry, I'm not sure who that is."

"Gemma?" Starsky added. He and Gemma were supposed to leave today for their honeymoon. "My wife."

"The doctor is just coming, he'll want to talk to you about . . .Gemma." She backed up, disappearing behind a blue checked curtain like a magician's assistant and a tall, dour-faced doctor who reminded Starsky of Dr. Franklin from Bay City appeared in her stead.

"I'm Doctor Franklin," he introduced himself.

"Really?" Starsky moved his eyes without letting his head turn at all. Sure enough, the badge on the man's white coat said Simon Franklin. The doctor in BC was Thomas Franklin, but it was still a weird coincidence. "Where's Gemma? Was she hurt, too?"

"What do you remember?" Franklin asked, going about his exam by flashing a light in Starsky's eyes and asking him to bend his neck to one side and then the other.

That was the worst. Starsky had to close his eyes, concentrating on quelling the overwhelming urge to puke on the doctor's shoes this time. "I got married," he said carefully.

"What day was that?"

"On--uh--Saturday," he said tiredly.

"And what day is today?"

"Sunday?" Starsky wasn't quite as sure about that one. He was certain about the date they'd gotten married, the second time. December 15th-- ten days before Christmas.

"Good." Franklin nodded approvingly. "We've taken x-rays--you have a concussion, some whiplash and a few cracked ribs. Remarkable, considering . . ."

That sounded ominous. Doctors didn't usually trail off like that unless there was something they felt the patient couldn't handle. Starsky swallowed deliberately, dread settling in his belly. He knew. No words had to be said. _He knew._ It was not his lot in life to have a storybook ending. He didn't want to say the words out loud, in case doing so made the worst real.

Opening his eyes, Starsky looked up at Dr. Franklin's back as the man examined the x-ray films again. It really was a remarkable resemblance; what kind of warped symmetry had given him two doctors with bulbous noses, hang dog expressions and enough height to play Lurch on The Addams Family?

He was avoiding the inevitable. Dr. Franklin turned around, his face somber. He began to speak, but Starsky beat him to the punch.

"She's dead, isn't she?"

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid so. We've contacted her parents; they are on their way." His big head nodded as if it were too heavy to hold all the terrible things he had to tell his patients every day.

Just like that, Starsky was a widower. Married for two weeks, counting both the justice of the peace ceremony and the more official Church of England one. Funny, him getting married in front of a vicar, a Jewish boy from New York.

The funeral was on Wednesday. A simple closed casket due to Gemma's injuries. Starsky isolated himself from all who tried to give comfort, walling up the grief to fortify himself for the long nights ahead. He didn't think, didn't cry, just mechanically did what he was told and waited to be laid low by the weight of it all.

He finally called Hutch on Tuesday, deliberately too late for him to catch a plane back to the U.K. in time for the funeral, his chest aching from the cracked ribs and throbbing head clogged from all the unshed tears.

"Starsk!" Hutch greeted cheerily.

Starsky could imagine him, sitting in his bedroom at Venice Place, or maybe in the kitchen whipping up a breakfast shake. Two forty-five England time was 6:45 in the am in California. He'd almost hoped to get Hutch's answering machine, to relay the unhappy message into an unsympathetic tape while Hutch was out jogging. Instead, he got his partner, just the sound of his voice ripping Starsky open so that it felt like his pain would leak out on the floor.

"Hey," Starsky mustered up the cheeriest voice possible. It didn't work, Hutch heard through his mask like a pro.

"What's wrong?"

Starsky told him about the accident, the hospital, the upcoming funeral in as few words as possible. He was all right, just banged up. No need for Hutch to spend another $500 he didn't have to fly back again. Starsky would be home, as planned but without his bride, in the new year.

"Starsky, how can I help you?" Hutch had insisted, and it was all Starsky could do not to break down and beg him to come now, hold him tight and promise never to let go. But he'd forfeited that road long ago. So long ago that he had no right to try to travel that direction now.

In the end, he'd silently hung up on Hutch.

The bed and breakfast was a charming place, white-washed walls with a Tudor-style cross beams and sheep grazing on the hill that stretched out to the moor. Starsky explained the situation to the astonished host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. Edmonson, and requested that he be left alone for a few days. They were more than sympathetic to his awful news, showing him to the unfortunately named Bridal Cottage with contrite smiles.

There actually was a small ceramic plaque next to the front door with the words 'Bridal Cottage' written in fancy scrollwork and tiny rosebuds all around the edge. Starsky chose to ignore it, only wanting a bed and sleep for about one hundred years.

"Can I bring you something for your supper?" Mrs. Edmonson asked kindly, her pale blue eyes reminding Starsky too much of eyes he didn't want to see just then. Or maybe he wanted to see those eyes too much. "I'm making lamb stew and soda bread from my mother's recipe."

"Uh--no, I'll go down to the pub if I'm hungry later," Starsky promised, glad to see them hurry back to the protection of the covered walkway that branched out from the house to the first of the two cottages. Mrs. Edmonson told him a couple from California--wasn't that where he was from?--was staying in the 'Rose Cottage', but luckily the American tourists must be out seeing the sights so Starsky didn't have to dredge up any hometown friendliness which he had no energy for.

He lay down fully clothed on the bed, leaving his suitcase smack dab in the middle of the rug. Sleep was fitful, full of nightmares where the car rolled over and over but it was Hutch sitting next to him. Hutch who couldn't remember him when he came to. A different, mustached Hutch who died the moment Starsky tried to pull him from under the demolished vehicle.

He woke, drenched in sweat, shivering, wanting to cry but unable to. What the hell was going on? He just needed eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Was that too much to ask for?

 _Booze._

When Hutch was recovering from the plague, Starsky had gone to a bar and got shit-faced drunk because it was the only way he could think of to unwind. Three shots of 80-proof vodka left him loose enough to curl up on the seat of the Torino and sleep--in the parking lot of the hospital so he could see Hutch in the morning.

The only way he'd been able to rid himself of the demons of death.

So, they were back again, and they'd claimed another love.

Terry and now Gemma.

Not to mention Helen and that sweet black-eyed beauty he'd held hands with back in 'Nam--Ahn who'd stepped on a landmine a few months after their meeting.

 _All gone. All dead._

Better that he never had loved them at all than doomed them to death just because they'd met David Starsky.

And Hutch.

 _God_

How did he go back to Hutch after such betrayal--one Hutch wasn't even aware of? Hutch had been so giving, so good through all of this--relinquishing his place at Starsky's side when Gemma filled it, encouraging Starsky's burgeoning romance even when it meant they had fewer hours together with Hutch's workload at Metro and Starsky's physical therapy appointments.

But Starsky had seen the toll it took for Hutch to bless their engagement. Had seen his shock and--was it possible that there had been disappointment there, too? The night he and Gemma had taken Hutch out to The Greenery, a brand new, and very expensive vegetarian place that had taken Bay City by storm, and announced their plans for dual-continental weddings.

Starsky had registered Hutch's stunned expression and barreled right past it, all without one consideration for his partner's feelings. He shivered, icy cold, haunted by the look on his Hutch's face.

He needed a drink--something to help him sleep and forget. There was a pub five minutes down the road, all he had to do was find his way there. Throwing off the bed covers, Starsky got up to roam restlessly through the unfamiliar house.

Three rooms, bedroom, tiny kitchen, and a sitting room decorated with plump, overstuffed furniture. Gemma would have loved the girlish touches of knickknacks on the mantle and pretty flower arrangements. To Starsky, it was simply a place to be alone.

The place was frigidly cold, logs set in the stone fireplace but unlit, and it was way too much work to pick up the matches and coax the wood to burn.

He dug through the suitcase, instead, dumping clothes onto the floor until he found the sweater he didn't even remember packing. Gemma must have done it, and for that, he thanked her from the bottom of his heart.

With his sore ribs and myriad bruises, getting the shawl collared red sweater over his head was more difficult than he expected, and he dropped, completely spent, into the window seat. The sweater had always been a little too long in the sleeve for Starsky. He tucked his numb fingers into the warm cuffs, pressing his cheek against the cold glass overlooking the dark and empty moor.

Not empty, of course, or even dead, which is what it looked in the middle of winter, in the middle of the night. With the moon shrouded in heavy clouds and the constant rain, the moors matched his mood. Bleak, barren and endless.

He slept again, propped up with throw pillows and the sturdy pane, this time seeing Gemma dressed in Irish lace and her heavy satin dress, a fairy princess just for him. When he looked over her shoulder, there was his prince--hair ablaze like captured sunshine, walking backwards into the fog, out of reach. Gemma took his hand in hers, pledging her love 'until death do us part'.

 _Gemma-of-the-spirits._

Once she'd held him close, protecting him against the dreams of a shooting he had no true memory of. Now she invaded those dreams, a spirit born of a car accident he couldn't remember at all.

He woke, dazed, seeing a bleary, waterlogged sun crest the rise of the moors, golden-tipped shadows catching the wandering sheep. Roosters crowed their morning greetings from somewhere nearby and the sound of a train whistle shrilled in the distance.

Friday now. Four days until Christmas. Nearly the last day of Chanukah. Not that he was planning to celebrate either holiday. Just days to survive, like any others. He was paid up with the Edmonsons through to New Year's day--all part of the Hawthorne's wedding gift. He'd repay them, naturally. No reason they should have to finance his mourning after he'd killed their eldest daughter.

There was something he'd planned to do, but couldn't remember.

He could see a road curving down from the village just out of sight around the bend. A truck trundled along the lane, slowing to allow a sheep to pass before pulling alongside the main house of the bed and breakfast. Now only able to see the glare from the red taillights of the truck, Starsky waited, listening for voices. First the deliveryman, with his cargo of fresh milk and eggs, then Mrs. Edmonson, thanking him.

That was what he'd forgotten. Food and liquor. He'd meant to go down to the pub, but had slept instead. The thought of one of those huge English Breakfasts with rashers of bacon, fried mushrooms and tomatoes alongside a bright yellow egg was enough to nauseate him.

Gemma had grinned so infectiously Sunday morning, spearing a sausage and sucking it into her mouth with the silent promise that she would do the same to his cock once they were alone. Was he bad to have wanted that, all the while wondering what it would feel to have Hutch's mouth be the one surrounding him?

He couldn't even recall when the idea of loving Hutch--the kind of love he'd been raised to expect came when a man and a woman met and fell in love--had originated. He was almost certain that it had always been there, tantalizingly out of reach, but perfect in its simplicity. Something he would never act on, but a beautiful dream that could be brought out to while away the lonely hours.

Now, he didn't even have that. He'd certainly forfeited any love Hutch could have offered by callously substituting Gemma just when Hutch was at his neediest. Starsky was fully aware of how his near-death experience must have affected his best friend. He could clearly remember his own terror when Hutch was struck down with the virulent plague. It must have been far, far worse for Hutch to see his partner lying in a pool of blood and then to have to know that it had taken repeated jolts of electricity to restart his heart.

Except, Starsky wasn't sure that his heart had ever really restarted. Something had taken him over since then--a desperate, headlong plunge in the pursuit of the all American dream--wife, house, picket fence and two point five children. Dog optional. Odd that his quest had found him a British bride, and blinded him to the prize he'd had right beside him all along.

 _Hutch._

So, a forsaken path was now off-limits, and the alternate route he'd chosen was ruined and dead. So much for happiness.

He wanted a drink.

 _He wanted hope._

He wanted to be home. At least in Bay City he could see Hutch, have a friend to lean on, but not too heavily. Not enough to let Hutch know that he wanted to wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and never let go.

By the New Year he'd be able to hide the pain enough to return; good old Starsky, cocky and self-assured, everyone's friend. Hutch's friend.

Drifting off, Starsky finally got his dreamless sleep while the rain insulated the little cottage from the departure of the Californian tourists next door, satisfied after a substantial breakfast and ready for a day of touristing in the quaint British villages hugging the coast.

He woke confused, his mouth dry as cat fur and ribs screaming from the contorted position he'd been in for hours.

The knock on the door was more insistent the second time, and Starsky realized belatedly that that was what had waked him. Straightening his limbs, he groaned. Muscles strained in the accident spasmed when he tried to get up, pain shooting up and down his back and neck like rifle blasts. "Coming!" he called out, wondering if there was anything in the cottage like aspirin or maybe industrial strength morphine to put him out of his misery.

"Starsky!"

The voice stopped him cold with his hand on the doorknob. Afraid to breathe, Starsky pulled back the door to stare at his disheveled partner. "Damn."

Not the kindest of greetings, in retrospect, but Starsky's astonishment was so complete that he literally couldn't think of anything intelligent to say.

"Are you all right?" Hutch demanded. He engulfed Starsky in a bear hug, suddenly all over him, patting down his sore ribs, rubbing his aching neck--and for that Starsky would have purred if he'd had an ounce of sanity left in him--and caressing the back of his head. Hutch exhaled in relief, then pulled back, his expression an almost comical mixture of pissed-off, pent-up tension and joy. "What the hell you were thinking?"

"What?" It was possible that Starsky was still dreaming. The sight of Hutch here, out in the middle of Yorkshire when he should be back in California, was absolutely surreal.

"Why did you come?" he finally blurted out. Hutch had to be real--the solidity of his hand still wrapped around Starsky's sore ribs, which did hurt, was impossible to refute.

"You thought just because you told me not to? Just because you called so late that I'd miss the funeral meant I wouldn't come to be with my buddy? My best friend?" Hutch exploded, marching past Starsky into the cottage, dripping rain all over the rug.

"You're wet," Starsky said inanely. He was falling apart, no denying that.

"And you should still be in a hospital!" Hutch shouted, that finger of his stabbing the air in Starsky's direction. As if belatedly realizing he was coming on too strongly, Hutch folded his finger into his palm, using the same hand to rake his drenched hair off his forehead. "What made you drive nearly 300 miles with a concussion and broken ribs to way out in the middle of fucking nowhere? Are you delusional?"

"Ribs were only cracked," Starsky corrected defensively, pushing the door shut before some damp sheep wandered in after Hutch. He eased himself down into a wingbacked chair, regretting it instantly. He could feel every single damaged place on his body and would never manage pull himself out of the comfy recesses of the upholstered chair. Shades of the Monty Python threat of torture--the comfy chair. He giggled, slightly hysterical. "As for delusional, probably."

"Scared the hell out of me when you called," Hutch said softly, his voice like a soothing balm for all the wounds Starsky had borne. "You sounded lost and alone."

"I didn't want you to waste your . . ." He slid his eyes away from the feast of Hutch, back to the mirror of his life, the desolate moor.

"Coming to you is never a waste." Hutch ruffled Starsky's hair, his hand lingering on the crown of Starsky's head for a long moment.

Starsky didn't breathe, waiting for the recriminations that would follow. A droplet of water dripped from Hutch's sleeve, down Starsky's forehead, into his eye. A substitute tear for all the ones he couldn't shed.

"Sorry--I am wet." Hutch jumped back, hastily shedding his letterman jacket and draping it over the counter in the miniscule kitchen. "Left my bags in the car."

"There's a towel . . ." Starsky stopped, uncertain of the direction to the bathroom that he'd never visited. "And I got clothes."

"You do." Hutch smiled in bemusement at the tumble of garments on the floor. "Sweater looks good on you."

Once Hutch's, Starsky had appropriated it years ago. Or maybe they shared ownership, passing it back and forth as easily as they did a bottle of beer.

 _Oh, God, Hutch, please stay._

"H-how . . ." Starsky tracked Hutch with his eyes as his partner found the door with a discreet ceramic plaque marked 'W.C.' with tiny pink rosebuds all around the rim, and grabbed a blue towel to rub his hair dry. Same shade of blue as his eyes. Or was that hue?

Frantically trying to avoid falling into the perfection of those eyes, or the way Hutch's concern and love shored him up, Starsky groped for something to say. "How did you know where I was?"

"Went to the Hawthorne's place in Winterbourne Earls," Hutch flipped his hand backwards, signaling that he was starting over. "Caught a plane to England on Wednesday morning, arrived at Heathrow two hours late on Thursday."

Starsky nodded. California to the U.K. was a bitch of a flight under normal circumstances. He could just imagine Hutch enduring the endless hours hunched in a too small seat only two days after he'd just flown the reverse direction. Talk about jet lag. "You're probably ready to crash."

"Linnet Hawthorne was at the house, she told me you'd taken the cottage to be alone." Hutch scrubbed the towel over his head one last time and dumped it into a small wicker laundry basket. "She insisted I sit down and eat some of the leftovers from the funeral and I fell sleep." He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, as if ashamed of his inability to forgo hunger and rest. "Then when I started out this morning, I got lost. Took the wrong turn and ended up in Leeds."

Starsky laughed. The laughter bubbled up until he was holding onto his aching ribs, giggling helplessly. Joy and sorrow, so closely linked, bound together with the twine of life. Hilarity broke loose all the tightly wound emotions inside him and he was sobbing, unable to stop, to breathe, to think.

"Ssh, ssh, Starsk," Hutch whispered, catching his face between his big palms. "It's okay."

"I was wrong." Starsky shuddered, gulping air. "I used Gemma, and I killed her."

"No." Hutch practically pulled Starsky into his lap, settling them both into the bountiful cushions of the chair. "You never meant to do any of those things. You loved her."

"I thought that if . . ." Starsky struggled against Hutch's hold, caught for a moment before Hutch let go and he nearly stumbled to the floor in his rush to stand. He couldn't confess his worthlessness cuddled up in Hutch's lap. Digging his palms into his eyes to erase the tears, he wobbled drunkenly. "If I got married then...it would make everything all right. I'd have succeeded. Instead, I just failed again, when I should have ..."

"What?"

Starsky shrugged, still not stable on his feet after his retreat from his partner's arms, and staggered. "Whoa."

"Hey, hey, hey." Hutch was right beside him again, as he always was, holding Starsky up. "When was the last time you ate?"

Starsky let himself lean; it was better than taking a header into the carpet. The room revolved in slow but sick-making circles around him. When had he eaten? "After the funeral?" he guessed, the vague recollection coming back of Great Aunt Millicent pressing a salmon and cress sandwich into his hand.

"I've got food in the car." Hutch steered Starsky over to a round table and deposited him into a chair. "Had to do something while I was in Leeds. Or whilst." He smiled sweetly at Starsky before dashing out into the downpour.

The few moments Hutch was gone were agony. Starsky had just convinced himself that his partner really had come halfway around the world to hold his hand and now he'd left already.

Hutch bustled back into the cottage carrying bags labeled Marks and Spencer's in red letters. "Don't know what possessed me to buy all of this. Steak and Kidney pie. Sausage rolls. Lemon-Ginger biscuits. Lemonade, which isn't, it's like 7-up. And spotted dick in a can."

"No!" Starsky grabbed the tin. That's exactly what it said on the side, 'Spotted Dick'. "I think this is cake."

"Brits call that pudding." Hutch fished the blue towel out of the laundry hamper to re-dry his dripping hair and unpacked his groceries with it draped around his neck. He investigated the cupboards, pulling out some simple plates and cutlery, and made quick work of doling out portions on two plates.

"Eat, and talk to me," Hutch said, sliding a plate under Starsky's nose.

Staring stupidly at the food, Starsky had to concentrate on picking up a fork and taking the first mouthful. Steak and Kidney pie sounded far more revolting than it tasted. He ate two more bites, washing them down with some of the aforementioned lemonade. Hutch watched him to insure he was eating before tucking into his meal, too.

"I can't believe you came."

"Starsk," Hutch sighed, putting down his napkin. "You've had a shit of a year."

"I should have . . ." Starsky shrugged, poking his fork at a bit of crust. Amazingly, he was still hungry, but not for Spotted Dick. "I just wanted ordinary, y'know? Just like everybody else."

"When has David Starsky ever been ordinary?" Hutch curled his finger around Starsky's which caused the crust on his fork to fly up in the air and land in the lap of a decorative doll sitting on a shelf. Hutch chuckled. "See, not everyone can do something like that." He plucked the crust out of her lacy pinafore and tossed it back at Starsky. "I know what you mean, though. The wife, the whole married thing, seems so important."

Starsky crumbled the crust onto his plate. "Gemma was my one chance. With Kira--and I know you saw right through her when I was doin' the moon faced lover, I wanted somebody who knew the job, knew what we did 'cause that would avoid all the problems you had with Van."

"Good points, all of 'em." Hutch opened the fire grate, poking some crumpled newspapers in among the stacked firewood and lit a match. "Kira probably wasn't your best choice. Gemma was a sweetheart. Just your type."

"You always said she looked like Terry." Starsky stared into the blossoming red flames. "Score one for Hutchinson for again seeing what I didn't."

"Starsky, don't beat yourself up."

"Why not? She was the first girl I even looked at. One of the nurses, for God's sake. None of the others were 'my type'. Esther was too old, Maria-Conception had nine kids and Debbie--well, Debbie was Debbie." He corkscrewed his finger next to his ear. "I needed a woman, fast, somebody who could look at the scars and not be freaked, somebody who wanted to get married--to make me whole."

Hutch added another log to the merrily burning fire, his head bowed. "You were never less than whole."

"But I was, to me." Starsky rubbed his chest, the scars hidden under Hutch's old red sweater. Memories of Hutch watching the nurses change the bandages hovered in the smoke of the fireplace. Hutch's sadness. His pride at Starsky's recovery. His ability to make the worst medical treatments more bearable just by being there. Even Gemma hadn't had that effect on him

"Can I ask you something without sounding like a suspicious cop here?"

"What?"

"Would Gemma have used you to get her permanent green card?"

Starsky saw the way Hutch looked over at him, with eyes shuttered, protecting himself in case of attack. He expected Starsky to be angry that he'd cast aspersions on his wife. Starsky knew he might have been, even a few days ago, but he could view the past events with too much clarity now. "Hutch, wasn't like she had to stay in the US like some refugee from a Soviet gulag--I mean, look at her family. They're well off, but she probably makes a lot more money as a nurse in the US. Half the nurses in Memorial were English or Irish." He poured more of the fizzy lemonade, watching the bubbles rise to the surface of the drink. "Heck, I had ulterior motives. Maybe she did, too, even though I don't know what they were."

Hutch had relaxed, listening to Starsky's answer. "We all have ulterior motives. In my heart of hearts, I wished you well, but I didn't want you married."

"Yeah?" Starsky asked wistfully, finding himself drawn so absolutely into those blue eyes. Like winter lakes in Sweden or wherever the hell Hutch's ancestors sailed from. "I had these . . .fantasies . . ."

"You can't stop there." Hutch laughed. Sitting on the hearth, with the fire highlighting his hair to a warm golden and flushing his skin, he could have been a ten-year-old waiting for Santa. Starsky could just imagine the child--not Hutch but Ken, a non-believer in the jolly old elf, but still protecting the secret for his younger sister's benefit. Hutch was like that, always looking out for others.

The lovely thoughts made Starsky suddenly aware that he didn't hurt so much anymore. The grief for Gemma wasn't so hard to bear, and the pains from his injuries had faded like snow melting in front of the fire. Just by being there, Hutch had filled him up with that rarest of commodities--hope.

"It sounds stupid, or worse," Starsky started, afraid to voice the truth. Not because he thought that Hutch would mock him or revile him, but mostly because it would no longer be his private fantasy. Like the wish made while blowing out birthday candles, it would be revealed in the cold light of day.

"What's worse than stupid?"

"Wrong. It's . . . not normal."

"Nothing wrong with that at all."

"It is where I come from," Starsky insisted. "And where you come from, too. We're supposed to find a nice girl, have kids . . .not . . ." He couldn't even express what was in his heart right in front of the one he wanted most to tell his secrets to.

Looking away from Hutch again, Starsky spied the pinafored doll, her curls askew and dress mussed from the encounter with the piecrust. He leaned over to straighten her finery and saw a book sitting on the shelf below. There were quite a number of books, all novels set in and around the Yorkshire moors, but there was one that struck him as highly ironic in view of his thoughts from earlier in the day. "You ever see Wuthering Heights, Hutch?"

His brow furrowed at the sudden change in subjects, but as he frequently did, Hutch just bowed to Starsky's quicksilver attention span and gamely tried to catch up with the conversation. "I read the book. Karen had it and my girlfriend in high school went on and on about Heathcliff and Cathy being the perfect star-crossed lovers, so I read it. The word obsessed comes to mind."

"Can't say I'd call them perfect, but I been thinking about Heathcliff and Cathy all day." Starsky waved expansively at the storm lashed scenery. Wind pounded the rain against the cottage, rattling the window panes. "Merle Oberon and Laurence Olivier, my Ma's favorites. There was a place near our house that ran old movies. Whenever they had Wuthering Heights, my ma would take the evening off, put on her hat and gloves, and go watch the two of 'em wandering around in the gloom."

"Abby liked that movie." Hutch went over to his pile of bags and hauled out a bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey.

"Now I know you didn't get that at Mark's and Sparks." Starsky grinned, using the nickname Gemma had called the popular British chain.

"Duty Free, Starsk." Hutch poured quite a ration each into two tumblers. "Had to do something while I was waiting for the wings to de-ice in Baltimore." He took a drink, closing his eyes to savor the flavor. "So, I think you're evading the original subject."

"That was?" Starsky poured about half his tumblerful down his throat, sighing when the potent liquor hit his stomach. That's what he'd been waiting for. A full-on, three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk. Finishing the glass with a flick of his wrist, he poured a second round for himself. Hutch just favored him with a raised eyebrow, but didn't resist being topped off.

"Whatever was not normal, and therefore wrong." Hutch warmed his glass between his palms. "And whatever that had to do with a Bronte."

"Emily, not Charlotte. Charlotte wrote 'Jane Eyre'," Starsky said, feeling the mellowing affects of the whiskey down to his toes. He knew too much about too many trivial things, the names of authors, that whiskey could be aged for up to 20 years, that Hutch was the most beautiful man in the room, and the fact that whiskey broke down his inhibitions, made him overly chatty and amorous. Dangerous combination.

"Not to mention Anne, and ne'er do well brother Branwell," Hutch said, revealing his prep school background. "Studied the Brontes in high school, Starsk, don't need the Cliff notes version now."

"Sitting there out on the moors, Heathcliff waited for his love to return," Starsky said softly. "I don't want a ghost or . . . I wanted . . ." He had to say it, give the hope freedom. "You."

Hutch give a soft exhalation as if he'd just learned to breathe.

"I'd never wear a hoop skirt," Hutch said after a moment, a tiny ray of wistful joy underscoring his words.

"And you're alive." Starsky raised his eyes from his drink finally, caught in the beam of Hutch's perfection. He'd gone looking for his perfect match, gone all the way to England and should have seen it sitting there next to him in the Torino all along. "I'm alive, too, Hutch."

"I--uh . . ." Hutch set his still brimming glass on the hearth, standing like a newborn colt, all wobbly legs. "God, Starsk . . ." he started and his voice trembled so much Starsky had to come to him, kiss him carefully on the lips, breathe in the rest of whatever he'd been about to say.

Perfection in all things.

Whatever fears Starsky had harbored dissipated in the heat of Hutch's body clutching him close, kissing him fiercely in return. The feeling of Hutch's body was so entirely different from Gemma's, and it wasn't solely a matter of male body parts versus female. Hutch fit--or more accurately, Starsky fit into Hutch. He'd always known he would, they'd held each other up hundreds of times. Supporting the injured partner, leaning into the buddy when the other was too plastered to walk, simply hugging the best friend when life got too hard. Starsky found the familiar niche that had been formed just in his shape.

"You scared the hell out of me," Hutch whispered into Starsky's hair, kissing him behind the ear, and Starsky knew he wasn't talking about the recent car accident. Hutch's fears were buried deep in the memories from a gory parking lot shooting on the 15th of May, 1979. "Thought I'd lost you and everything good in life before I ever had the chance to admit . . ."

"That you were wrong?" Starsky finished for him, pulling up Hutch's sweater, oxford shirt and undershirt to flatten his hands against the broad, smooth expanse of muscled back.

"That I was right," Hutch corrected, shivering. "Geeze, your hands are cold, Starsk."

"Shut up," Starsky said, and kissed him again. A sad and fearful kiss because no matter how much they fit, they shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not now. He loosened his hands that had just begun to warm against Hutch's skin, and stepped back. "We can't."

"Why?" Hutch demanded, looking like he'd lost his lover. The lover Starsky so wanted to be.

"I want this, Hutch, I really do. I want you." Starsky tossed back the remainder of his second whiskey and braced himself on the chair when the world tilted lazily to one side and then righted itself again. Probably should have eaten more food before getting drunk, but throwing any good sense out into the rain storm, Starsky poured more of the aromatic Jameson's into his glass. "Gemma . . .my wife . . . just died. I--we need to slow down."

"Yeah," Hutch said slowly, and sat back at the table, pulling Starsky's chair out for him, too. When Starsky sat, Hutch intertwined their fingers, palms flat together. He didn't say any more for a long time, just sat there watching Starsky drink. "Had enough? Stuff'll just make your head explode tomorrow."

"Don't go sprouting all that med school shit to me. I hap--" Starsky hiccupped and clapped the hand Hutch wasn't holding over his mouth. "I happen t'know that med school is only science classes and anat--anatomy, not like real doctors at all."

"Took enough to know that you're drunk." Hutch poked him in the chest. "I should have said it one thousand times before, but you beat me to it."

"Getting' drunk?" Starsky asked, reaching for the nearly empty bottle but Hutch slid it across the table until it was cheek and jowl with the lemonade.

"Admitting the truth." Hutch squeezed their joined hands. "I'll wait, Starsk, for as long as it takes."

"Truth, justice and the 'Merican way," Starsky slurred. "Ala-cazam, Captain America."

"You're Captain Marvel, I'm Captain America?" Hutch grinned fondly. "I'm sorry, Starsk. About Gemma."

"I made a mistake, but it wasn't her," Starsky said, seeing her gaily wave at him from the car just before he hung up on Hutch. "She was good, and I shouldn't have . . ."

"Let it go. You didn't cause the crash, you didn't force her to come to England in the middle of December. She would have probably come anyway," Hutch said sensibly.

"Had to, her Visa ran out." Starsky ran his thumb the length of Hutch's forefinger. Hutch had big hands, long fingers, probably one or two millimeters--to use the metric system since they were in England--longer than Starsky's. His palm was broad enough to completely engulf Starsky's, if he chose to. "Makes you wonder how much you can fight the inevitable."

"You and I certainly tried, didn't we?"

"Two of a pair, Hutch, we always have been," Starsky said, and knew, without a single iota of doubt, that they were linked forever. He and Hutch. No matter how illogical the conclusion, he loved Hutch, and improbably, Hutch loved him.

"So what is there to do in this place?" Hutch rose, tidying up the meal.

"Besides sitting, reading Victorian lit'ure an' getting drunk?" Starsky made a grab for the whiskey but Hutch spirited it away with a turn of his hip. Starsky found his hand wrapped around firm male ass, and he liked the feel. He pinched.

"Hey, watch that, it's not a cantaloupe you're sampling."

"We can't go out, it's raining." Starsky gestured at the window. Trees were waving to and fro like crazed stick monsters on a rampage. The sheep had all but disappeared, cowering in a huge sodden cotton ball mass inside a fenced enclosure.

"You're not the Wicked Witch of the West, you will not turn into brown sugar." Hutch stowed the groceries in the cabinets and leaned against the counter, as if he needed a space between the two of them to avoid any chance of improper behavior between a widower and his best friend.

Starsky knew exactly how he felt, in every definition of the word. "I hear Whitby's a nice town."

"Sound's good."

"Supposed to be a restaurant there with World Famous fried fish," Starsky continued, hearing Gemma's sweet voice extolling the virtues of the Victorian seaside town. "Called the Magpie Inn."

"Even better."

"What time is it?"

Hutch consulted his pocket watch, the gold cover glinting in the kitchen light. "Nearly five."

"At night?" Starsky clarified. It was black as midnight outside, but then, it got dark here at three thirty in the afternoon. How had he missed the whole day completely, with only patchy memories of the last week?

"Not time to get up. More like time to read some Victorian literature." Hutch clicked the watch shut, obviously not certain of where and what to do when they both wanted to drop into bed and fuck like bunnies. "At home, we could play Monopoly."

"Now that's appropriate." Starsky smiled sadly, remembering a past wake to a departed lady, but he couldn't shut off thoughts of all that blondness naked in the white Bridal Cottage bed. "Mrs. Edmonson tol' me there was some games in the cupboard." He tried to stand, he really did, but between the cracked ribs and a half a bottle of whiskey, Starsky's strength had departed him.

"I'm not sure you have a brain cell left to calculate how much money you'd owe me, anyway," Hutch conceded, pushing him gently back into the chair to keep him in place. His hand lingered just a beat too long before he retreated. Starsky missed the touch as if a vital organ had been removed. "A British Monopoly game would be played with pounds and pence."

"I never . . . " Starsky shrugged, forgetting what he was about to say. The pictures in his brain of he and Hutch kissing as they had just done in front of the fire, bodies curved around each other, one dark and one light, were too powerful. "How long are you staying?"

"Dobey told me to find you and bring you back," Hutch opened a package of cookies and sat back down at the table. Offering food again instead of kisses. "Next year," he added belatedly.

"Next year," Starsky echoed, and that little germ of hope Hutch had gifted him with was back. "You remember Huggy's New Year's party last year, Hutch?"

"How could I forget? When he declared Ouzo the drink of '79 and we probably finished off a case of the stuff." Hutch smacked his forehead, making a face. "I think I floated home on Greek booze and--what were those things we were eating?"

"Dolmas." Starsky ate a ginger-lemon cookie, all the while craving rice and pine nuts wrapped in grape leaves. Courtesy of Huggy's newest waitress, An-migr-- from Corsica. "Ouzo should be outlawed. Did make my head explode. But we made New Year resolutions, remember?"

"You were going to . . ." Hutch made the same small, astonished sound he'd done when Starsky spoke of Heathcliff waiting on the moors for his long lost love. "Get married."

"And you were going to make a change," Starsky said sadly. Whatever had possessed him to make such an asinine declaration nearly one year ago? Who had he expected to marry? He could only recall staring into Hutch's marvelous light blue eyes and knowing that he never wanted to go so far that he couldn't see them anymore. "Make a difference in this life." He took Hutch's hand, no longer caring that mere physical contact drove both of them past the brink of proper relations between friends. He needed to feel Hutch down to his very soul. "You made a difference in mine. Always have, always will."

"Ditto," Hutch pretended to thumb wrestle him for the cookie, keeping things as light as humanly possible when they'd just discovered an awe inspiring love that could consume them if they weren't careful.

"This year I'm making the same resolution," Starsky said solemnly. "A whole new decade, just for us, Hutch. No more waiting. I found what I was looking for."

"Still nine days in this year, Starsk." Hutch smiled broadly, happiness shining around him like a halo in a Russian icon. "Think you'll change your mind?"

"Nah--but I suddenly got the urge to do some Christmas shopping in ol' Whitby. Matching sweaters and plaid waistcoats like Gemma's dad wore to the wedding."

"It's a good thing you'll always have me to rein in your impulses, idiot." Hutch shoved the cookie he'd won into Starsky's mouth. "Coal in your stocking if you go near a plaid waistcoat." Starsky crunched down on the cookie, nearly biting Hutch's finger.

"Christmas right here, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, wassail, whatever the hell that is, and sugar plums dancin' in our heads?" Starsky suggested, even if the ghost of Gemma still hovered over him. Funny enough, he thought he could see her smiling at him, giving a benevolent blessing.

He was distinctly, deliriously happy, and the abrupt change in emotion made him giddy--that and the whiskey. "What's that song? Bring us a piggy fudding . . ." Somehow that was all wrong and he was in the rightest mood he'd ever been.

"Bring us a figgy pudding and bring it right here," Hutch sang, and kissed Starsky without benefit of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. "Good tidings to you and all of your friends, good tidings at Christmas and a happy New Year."

Fin


End file.
